Everything I Know About Writing, I Learned in Kindergarten

Here's a challenge: write a story in 600 words or less, one that'll make me laugh or cry (or, even better, make me do both in quick succession). One with fully developed characters, a mature plot and a complete story arc. And then make it the kind of story I'll want to read six dozen times in as many nights, laughing or crying each and every time.

That's what makes writing a good children's picture book so challenging.

It's also what has helped me become a better novelist. No writer agonizes over every single word - not just the meaning and appropriateness of the word, but the sound of the word as well - as the writer of the successful picture book. No author is so attuned to the melody of a story, the tightness of the plot, the bare essentials-yet-completeness of the characters.

Now, to be honest, I don't give my novels the same level of scrutiny as I do my picture book manuscripts. It would be impossible to finish anything if I did. But the habits I learned in writing picture books have conditioned me to more readily recognize weaknesses in my longer works, to listen to the sounds of the language, to write tightly.

Writing is, to mangle a phrase, ten percent inspiration and ninety percent constipation. We all know how hard it is to produce good writing. For me, developing the skills and habits to write a good picture book has helped (ahem) loosen the process of writing novels.

And if you don't believe me that shorter is harder, then why is it so damn difficult to synopsize your novel in just a few pithy sentences? Well, PBs are pretty much like that.

The Listing WIP and Whether to Correct It

No, this is not a post about speech impediments, rather writing impediments. Namely, what happens when your inner and outer muse start to fight.

I'm working on an MG right now that is supposed to be a total comedy/fantasy/unrealistic story about a boy at war with his dad. Really. Like, his father is an evil super villain and it's up to the boy to save the world. Problem is, all these serious feelings and issues and subplots keep intruding, wanting to be part of the story. I thought I could get away with supressing them by adhering to a strict regimen of Comedy Central and a well-developed story outline.

Right. My story keeps veering off to the side, straying off into those murky waters of adolescent angst.

So, last week I decided to let it ride, see where things would take me. Or, at least, that's what I thought I was doing. Actually, I was just humoring my subconscious while still pretending to write the story I set out to write.

Talk about Jeckle and Hyde. The thing reads like Percy Jackson meets Nate the Great. Ugh.

So, what to do? I really like the idea of writing a funny, quirky tale that doesn't try to be serious about anything. But I guess what I need to write is the serious one first. Which bothers me, because I don't like the feeling of having something I need to exorcise. And yet I know it'll be therapeutic. So, that's what I'm going to do. Oh, my MC is still at war with his father, whom he still believes is a secret super villain bent on destroying the world. Sounds silly, right? But, when you think about it, isn't that really the premise of a lot of serious stories?

What do you do when your inner and outer muse start to fight? Which do you go with?

WRT: The Importance of First Words - What Does Your Character Crave?

It's a rookie mistake to introduce your main character as a flawless, perfectly content human being. Who cares? Well, you do. You love your protagonist and you don't want anything bad to happen to him. But your reader does. That's what makes your reader come back for more. There are two things you, as a writer, will naturally resist doing to your character.

1. Make them want something.

2. Put obstacles in their way to getting it.

The first is called Craving, and it's what I'm focusing on today. It's what compels your character to act, and what compels your reader to connect. Which is why it's so important to define what your MC wants very, very soon after you introduce them.

In Markus Zusak's Fighting Ruben Wolfe, Cameron Wolfe, Ruben's brother, is the narrator. In the book's opening page, we find them at the track making illegal wagers on the dogs:

A girl walks past.
Jesus, I think.
"Jesus," Rube says, and that's the difference.

Zusak immediately shows us the kind of person Cameron is. He idolizes and wishes he could be more like his older brother. This is how Zusak sets up the story, which we know almost from the start (if you haven't read the jacket blurb), entails an eventual boxing match between the two Wolfe brothers. Zusak helps us connect with Cameron by showing his weaknesses, because, like the rest of us, we all wish we were better and stronger and smarter than reality reminds us we are. (Although the next First Lines subject is about conflict, it's worthwhile to point out the irony in how Zusak provides it here: in order for Cameron to prove he's more like his brother, he'll have to beat him).

In the English translation of his book, the invisible, Mats Wahl tells us in the very first sentence what minor character (but the story's focus) Hilmer Eriksson wants:

It was on one of the first days of May that Hilmer Eriksson discovered he had become invisible.

It's obvious what Hilmer wants: to be visible. Why? And is he really invisible? And if so, what made him invisible? We shortly discover that Hilmer is missing, later presumed dead. During the investigation, Hilmer "haunts" the novel's main character, Inspector Fors. Which leads to an even greater craving by Hilmer: he wants to know what happened, for his disappearance to have meaning. Who among us hasn't at one time or another feared disappearing without leaving some kind of trace behind, for our lives to have meaning? (In fact, I would have to say that that is one reason so many of us write.) Reminds me of a quote by Jim Morrison (of Doors fame): "The appeal of cinema lies in the fear of death." It's what makes the invisible so appealing to read.

So, dear Writer, make sure you know and show what your main (and even secondary)characters want in your story's First Words.

Next time: Conflict.

Happy RoadTripping.

WRT: The Importance of First Words - Character Clues and Cues

I see a lot of writers write about when and how to introduce characters into a story (not too many too soon, provide unique clues to aid the reader, avoid multiple characters whose first names share the same first letter, etc, etc ...). One thing you don't see a lot of is how do you use character introduction - and I mean in the first paragraphs of your first chapter - to help readers connect with the story and to provide a sense for where the story is going to take them.

Most likely you, as the writer, will want to introduce your main character(s) very, very soon after the reader opens your book to that magical first page and reads, "Chapter One." There are exceptions to this general rule, of course, but unless you're intentionally delaying this critical introduction for a very good reason, then seriously consider adhering to this guideline.

To see how successful authors introduced their characters, let's look at a couple examples, randomly pulled from my bookshelf.

Here's the first paragraph from Kim Edwards' The Memory Keeper's Daughter:

The snow started to fall several hours before her labor began. A few flakes at first, in the dull gray late-afternoon sky, and then wind-driven swirls and eddies around the edges of their wide porch. He stood by her side at the window, watching sharp gusts of snow billow, then swirl and drift to the ground. All around the neighborhood, lights came on, and the naked branches of the trees turned white.

We meet the story's two main characters immediately, husband and wife, not by name (in fact, we never learn their names until Chapter Two), but by a sense of how they see the world. How does Edwards clue us into the wife's character? The imagery she uses is soft, low-contrast, gentle ("snow started to fall" "few flakes" "dull gray" "swirls and eddies"). In contrast, the husband is cold and unfeeling. He watches out the window (why isn't he watching his wife as she labors to have their children?). He comes to us in a sentence where the first adjective is "sharp." Not directly defining him, but those "sharp gusts" tell us how he sees the scene outside that window. Interestingly, Edwards uses the same word twice ("swirl/s"), surprising us with our contrasting response to it (first, as something soft; second, as something cold). In those first four sentences, we have everything we need to know in order to move forward with the story.

The opening line of Jeffrey Eugenides' Middlesex is:

I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkable smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974.

Eugenides deftly uses contradiction to tell us about his main character. First, he emphasizes the miracle of a smogless Detroit day to underscore the mistake of Calliope Helen Stephanides' birth. He then tells us that she became Cal in a venue we associate with accidents: the ER. How does this make the reader feel? Sympathetic. Why? The idea of a transgender main character is enough to make most people squeamish (even more a decade ago when this was written). And yet, by giving us some insight into Cal's mind, we can't help but feel sympathetic.

Do your character introductions fall flat? Do they provide a sense of the person you mean them to be without actually describing them in such terms? Do you help your readers connect with your characters by showing their flaws, by giving them something to yearn for, by making them human, no matter how foreign the subject matter might be to the reader?

Speaking of yearning, that's the subject of the next FIRST WORDS discussion: CRAVING.

WRT: Importance of First Words – Context, China Rabbits and Cold Blood

Following on the heels of last week’s post about Prologues, I wanted to expand on the importance of first words and the things you, as an author, must do with them to make a reader (i.e., agent/editor and, eventually, the buyer) want to invest time in your book.

What must you accomplish with your first words? In simple terms, hook your reader. Sounds easy, but the HOW of doing that ends up being a bit tricky. Why? Because no two readers are alike, and it’s impossible for you to satisfy all of them all of the time.

However, there are a few basic things you can do to increase your chances of helping the reader quickly connect in some meaningful way with your story. I like to think about CONNECTING with your reader in terms of four more C-words: CONTEXT, CHARACTER, CRAVING and CONFLICT.

Today, I’ll talk a bit about Context.

So, what is it and what do I mean by it? Context is essentially the basic information your reader needs to orient themselves in your story. Not providing it is, well, disrespectful. Why? You don’t want your reader feeling lost and adrift from the very start of your story, do you? There’s nothing more disorienting than picking up a book, begin reading it, and having to wait to find out where the heck the thing’s set. Stories that begin with a whole bunch of dialogue and very little else fail in this way.

Think of it this way: You’ve just thrown reader into a whole new world. Whether it really is a different universe, a different planet, country, town or mindset, without providing context, you’ve essentially blindfolded your reader. Not good. You reader is bringing a lot of baggage along with him, all his worldly belongings of preconceived notions and a moving van of expectations. And if there’s no place to put that gold and purple couch with the silk tassels in your story, your reader is going to get awful tired real quick and leave. So, whether it’s in a submarine, in the mind of a comatose eleven-year-old, or a distant planet, you must provide some immediate clues to the setting so your reader knows where he can stand and put his stuff. Or, more importantly, where he can put your character.

Unfortunately, it’s not as simple as saying: "This story takes place here at a time when…."

Boring. Here’s your best opportunity to put your reader in the proper frame of mind, without letting them know you’re doing it.

Let’s look at a couple very different examples. I’ve chosen Kate DiCamillo’s THE MIRACULOUS JOURNEY OF EDWARD TULANE and Truman Capote’s IN COLD BLOOD.

Here’s the first sentence in EDWARD TULANE: "Once, in a house on Egypt Street, there lived a rabbit who was made almost entirely of china."

We know immediately where we are and can pretty much guess a lot more than DiCamillo provides: this is a house in which a child probably lives or once lived. We can guess that the family that owns the house is fairly well to do, perhaps well traveled, given that the address is somewhat exotic and the rabbit is made of china rather than plastic or fabric. We also know that this will not be a story set squarely in the real world, but probably somewhere where the lines between reality and fantasy are blurred. Why? Because this is a world where a made china rabbit lives.

IN COLD BLOOD begins: "The village of Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome area that other Kansans call ‘out there.’"

Brr. Can’t you just feel that cold wind blowing? Capote provides such a sense of utter isolation and desolation so extreme that even those who live nearby have difficulty saying much about it. But this lack of detail has the complete opposite effect on the reader: it provides all the information you need to understand the story as it unfolds.

Let’s break it down a bit more: The use of ‘village,’ for example, is intentional. It evokes images of a cluster of buildings, loosely connected. An outpost. It is also an old word, connotative of pilgrims, of simple living under harsh conditions. And harsh they are. The village ‘stands,’ as if in defiance. This is not going to be a touchy-feely story. But unless you’ve been living under a rock and bought the book without a cover, you already knew that.

Which is actually beside the point. The point is, the writer invites the reader into a different world, provides clues as to the type of world it is and the kind of story they’re telling. That’s context.

Next time I’ll talk about introducing your Character(s) to your readers.